


Tanpan

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Funny, M/M, Multi, Open Marriage, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Donna negotiate a truce; Donna and Sherlock negotiate a compensatory payment; the three of them negotiate a V (not a triangle).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tanpan

**Author's Note:**

> Part three of the "Road to Home" series. John and Donna's story began in "Date Mates," which makes reference to the even earlier events of "In Scandinavia."

John jumped from his chair as soon as he heard Donna’s key in the front door lock, rubbed his hands together nervously.

“God—sweaty palms,” he muttered. Sherlock looked amused.

“Shall I leave?” Sherlock asked, motioning toward the bedrooms.

“No, you’re fine. You’re fine.”

“I’ll make tea.”

Sherlock passed into the kitchen and here was Donna on the landing, smiling at John like it was any other, normal day, instead of the second day after the resurrection of the late Sherlock Holmes. He went to embrace her; they lingered a bit.

“Here,” he said, drawing back. “Take your coat.”

“Thanks.” Donna set down her overnight bag just inside the doorway and John helped her out of her trench, hung it on the tall rack. “Hello there, Sherlock,” Donna called.

“Afternoon,” came the reply. “Tea?”

“Could do with some, yeah,” she said, rubbing her pale hands together to get the cold out.

John’s eyes darted from Donna to Sherlock and back again. He bit his lower lip, trying to assess the situation: Sherlock, who he’d grieved for close to three years, back from the dead; Donna, his wife, just back from two nights at her mum’s. She’d left with promises that they were going to be fine, but she hadn’t been able to hold back her tears.

Donna was having her first good look at him; she grimaced.

“You look like hell, Sweetheart,” she cooed, laying her hand on his cheek, stroking her thumb over the stubble.

“Haven’t been sleeping well,” John admitted. In truth, he’d spent two entire nights awake, listening to Sherlock’s sleep-noises, reassuring himself that Sherlock was real, alive. Home.

“Happy, though,” Donna said encouragingly, with a smile to break John’s heart.

John looked sheepish, nodded. “Yeah.”

Donna slipped out of her shoes, nudged them with her sock-feet out onto the landing. She curled up in her usual way at the end of the sofa, legs tucked under her.

“How about you, Sherlock? Sleeping all right now you’re home in your own bed? Or does it feel a bit weird to be back in the old flat after so long away?”

Sherlock, busy with the tea, replied, “Slept like the dead, as a matter of fact. And I’ve seen many dead people; I assure you they sleep very well indeed.”

 John held up his hand.

“Sorry,” he interrupted. ”What—What’s happening?”

“I think Sherlock’s making tea,” Donna said. “Sit down, you.” She pointed to John’s chair. “Before you fall down. Really, Sweetheart, have you slept at all since I left here?”

Sherlock brought the tea on a tray, set it on the coffee table. Donna moved to pour, passed a cup to Sherlock, who had seated himself at the opposite end of the sofa. She fixed John’s for him the way he liked it, milk in first, and offered the cup on its saucer. He took it, looking at her through narrowed eyes, trying to get a read on her mood—was she going to hurl the teapot at him? Or stab Sherlock with the butter knife? Would spilling a drop of milk on her sleeve or some similar mini-disaster set her off into floods of tears? Surely she couldn’t really be as laissez-faire about Sherlock’s return as she appeared to be.

“Leg’s feeling better?” Donna asked pleasantly. “Less rain in the air. Yesterday was lovely; there was a wedding at the church behind my mum’s—perfect weather for it.”

“I realize I’m sleep deprived,” John began, blinking hard, “But I actually think I might be hallucinating?”

Sherlock sipped his tea, tipped his chin to one side.

John leaned his head forward on his neck, eyebrows raised. “This,” he made a circular motion in the air with his hand, stirring the three of them together, “is a surreal situation.” He lowered his cup so it rested on the arm of his chair, balanced the saucer with his hand. “Surely we’re not just going to sit here and chat, and pretend things are perfectly normal.”

Donna gave him a patient, compassionate look—one he knew well.

“You,” John protested, pointing at her, “left here in tears the other night.”

She shook her head, threw up her hands. “I finished. All cried out. Ain’t got a drop left in me.”

John looked at Sherlock. “So, as it turns out, I’m married,” John reminded him.

“I’ve known you were married since the week it happened.”

John rolled his eyes heavenward. “This is not how I imagined this would go.”

Donna just smiled. John imagined she might be putting on a brave face, but then again, she’d been wearing her brave face the other night when she left the flat, and the not-brave face had shown through. Now he thought she looked genuinely placid. And Sherlock sat sipping tea on the other end of the sofa. It was all too much.

“Sherlock, would you excuse us for a bit?” John asked.

“Certainly.” Sherlock set his tea down on the table and stopped in front of the bookshelf, scanning for something to take with him to his bedroom. “What an extraordinarily thorough collection of novels,” he marveled, “about single working women of a certain age, trawling for husbands in-between boutique shopping excursions and crises of self-confidence.”

“Oi!” Donna’s face flashed annoyance.

“Take my laptop,” John said quickly.

Sherlock unplugged the computer, started toward his bedroom.

“That battery only lasts three-quarters of an hour,” John protested.

“That’ll give you forty-four minutes to talk privately, then.” Sherlock disappeared into his room, clapping the door shut behind him.

John and Donna had a good long look at each other; neither spoke. Before his eyes, John watched Donna’s brave face begin to dissolve--slowly, by tiny measures--but fading undeniably. He was overcome; after two days alone with Sherlock—a miracle, a joy—here sat his wife, his very best friend, with her life utterly unraveled. He had to press his fingers against his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Donna said quickly, “No, no, Sweetheart. Don’t be sorry. Your Sherlock’s home.”

“Not what you bargained for when we said our ‘I do’s’, though.”

“How could we have known?” she soothed, though now there were tears rolling down her cheeks and John could hear her trying to keep control of her voice. “There’s nothing about this I hold against you, really there isn’t.”

“You’re a top girl, as ever.” John said, shaking his head.

Donna managed a wobbly smile.

In a tumbling rush of breath, she said, “I suppose you want a divorce.”

Simultaneously: “I imagine you’ll be leaving. What? No. I don’t—“

“Not at all, I thought-- You _don’t_ want a divorce?” Donna narrowed her eyes, crinkled up her nose in that way she had.

“Don’t you?” John asked.                

She shook her head. “No! I want to be married. I like our life. I just assumed that now you have Sherlock back, you wouldn’t want me anymore.”

John set his cup and saucer on the little table beside his chair, motioned for Donna to come to him. “Over here, Missus,” he ordered, patting his thigh. Donna gratefully settled herself across him, her bottom on his good leg, arms around his shoulders, legs dangling over the arm of his chair.

“Of course I still want you,” John said quietly. “It’s just that. . .you know how it was with Sherlock before he. . .” John tried to say things without really saying them. “And, well. Now he’s come back.”

Donna sighed hugely. “The way I see it,” she began, “Sherlock’s been part of our relationship from the beginning. I suppose I’m used to the idea of him, sort of.” She paused to gather her thoughts, then said, “I’ve always told you I didn’t begrudge you missing him, and I meant it. And you were so sad, for so long, Sweetheart.” She toyed with his shirt buttons. “I want you to be happy. I love our life, and even though this is—well, _really weird_ —we’ll find a way through. I just assumed you’d have no need of me anymore.”

John kissed her forehead, combed his fingers through her long hair, let it fall on her neck. “Of course I need you,” he said. “You’re my missus.”

“So I can stay, then?” Donna asked, snuggling closer.

“Of course you can stay; this is your home,” John told her, adding, “You silly, ridiculous, perfect girl.”

Donna smiled. She leaned in to kiss him; their lips fit together like they were designed that way, tab and slot, jigsaw pieces. John felt relief wash over him. Maybe he could, after all, have both. Another miracle.

Sherlock’s bedroom door clicked open behind them.

“That battery lasted nowhere near three-quarters of an hour,” Sherlock announced, setting the laptop back on the table and retrieving his teacup. He took a sip, grimaced at its having gone cold.

“Donna’s going to stay,” John said, “until we work out. . .everything.”

“Of course she’s going to stay. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t have brought her bag full of all her things back from her mother’s--she’d have left all that behind, or brought the bag back empty to collect more of her clothes,” Sherlock reported. He once again picked up John’s laptop, this time gathering the power cord as well. “Tomorrow I’ll need you to go out and get me my own computer and a new phone. And some real books.”

“Why does he have to get them for you, Majesty?” Donna demanded, though she was clearly more amused than annoyed.

“That story in the _Times_ doesn’t run until next week; I can’t be seen wandering the streets before it’s made public I’m alive.” Sherlock strode toward his bedroom, returned momentarily with the shirt he’d been wearing the night he’d returned—one which John had torn open in a moment of abandon. Sherlock draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. “This shirt needs buttons; you can take it to my tailor on the way to the dry cleaner. Do you still go on Tuesdays?” He disappeared back into the bedroom, though this time he left the door open.

“So,” John offered, with a chagrined half-smile. “Sherlock’s back.”

*

It was early for them to go to bed—only half-eight—but John was practically delirious with sleep deprivation. John found himself repeatedly  staring into space during dinner conversation (Donna made them all cheese sandwiches and they sat around the kitchen table together, plain as you please, as if it had always been thus). Once they’d established that he and Donna were not divorcing, John had begged off any further negotiation about the particulars; he was light-headed and vaguely nauseas.

Donna was doing her usual before-bed rituals of face cream; hand cream; some kind of different stuff on her feet, then covered with socks (she had lovely, smooth feet, with long toes she kept polished in shiny shades of red; John wasn’t a fetishist or anything, but he’d always thought Donna’s feet were particularly nice). Then she brushed her hair—there was a pretty, graceful thing she did with her fingers, dropping the loose hairs into the bin—and finally climbing under the quilts, lying on her back until they’d had their goodnight kiss, then turning away from him so John could curl up around her back, his arm around her waist.

“I know you’re tired, so spare the details,” she said as John wrapped himself around her, inhaled the fruit-and-flowers scent of her hair. “But where was he all that time?”

“Safe houses. Canada. New Zealand,” John murmured. Donna reached for his hand, tangled it up in hers, stroked his wrist with her thumb. “Something awful, too,” John added with a sigh. “He won’t tell me what, but he’s covered in old wounds and scars.”

Donna sucked in her breath. “God.”

“ I came up behind him and he skittered off like a beaten dog. Post-traumatic stress, I think.”

“Oh, poor man. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“So am I.” John yawned, squeezed her closer, comforted by all her familiar, soft curves fitting against him just so. “Glad you came home,” he told her.

“Me, too.”                  

“G’night, Missus Watson,” John murmured. Spooned up with Donna in their own bed, finally beginning to believe that Sherlock was really home—even now John could hear some noise from the telly as Sherlock channel-surfed in the living room--it was no time at all before John was finally, blissfully, able to sleep.

*

Sherlock cried out in the night.

Donna had heard cries like it before, and it was as heartbreaking from the man in the next room as it had once been from the man asleep beside her. She listened in the darkness. John breathing, long and shallow, asleep beside her. A loud huff of breath from the room next door, the creak of the bed, the door opening. She closed her eyes, but it was useless--now she was awake. There were shuffling, puttering sounds in the kitchen, then the living room. She checked the digital clock on the bedside table: 2.36.

Once she’d worked herself out from under John’s arm, Donna found his cardigan hanging from the bedpost, pulled it on over her leggings and t-shirt. She slid her feet into her slippers and shut the door quietly behind her, moving toward the kitchen. Sherlock sat in the living room, in John’s chair, worrying the arm of it with the fingernails of one hand.

“Can’t sleep?”

Sherlock hummed.

“Nor me.” Donna went to the fridge, removed the carton of milk, sniffed it, then turned two mugs from the dish drainer upright on the counter and filled them. “I slept too much at my mum’s.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Donna put the mugs in the microwave, started it. “I think I’ll do all my visits to her that way, from now on—she only got in a handful of insults in the whole two days.”

“Hm.” It was nearly a laugh, but not quite.

Donna retrieved the mugs of warm milk, moved to the living room. She offered one to Sherlock, who wrapped his long fingers around it, warming them. “Thanks,” he said.

“My grand-dad used to give me warm milk before bed if I’d had a wound-up day, when I was a kid.” Donna snuggled into the end of the sofa, tucking her feet up under her. They spoke in dim-lit, hushed voices.

“Our Swedish nanny did the same,” Sherlock replied. “But she put brandy in it.”

“Ooh, a nanny. Posh kids.”

“She was one of several. Evidently, she was keeping something else warm for our father and it was quickly determined her services were no longer required. Only old granny-types after that,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “German.”

“How very Upstairs, Downstairs,” Donna commented. “We’ll do it with the brandy next time, what?” There was a pause; a car swooshed by outside and Donna could tell from the sound that the roads were wet. At last, she said, “I suppose I should be angry with you.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Your beast of a brother knew all along you were coming back, so you must have been in together with him on this plan. You let poor John think you were dead for nearly three years.”

“You should thank me.” Sherlock’s tone was not aggressive or indignant, maintained the quiet murmur of the conversation.

“Thank you? You broke his heart.”

“I saved his life. You have no idea the danger that man was in all that time. And not that I owe you an explanation for anything I’ve done, but the only thing that kept me away so long was that it was keeping him safe.”

Donna sipped at the warm milk, remembered that her grand-dad would sometimes swirl a spoonful of honey into it for her. Sherlock sounded sincere, and the details would fill in, over time, she imagined. For now she decided to believe him.

“All right then,” she said quietly, “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded appreciatively.

“That wretched Mycroft Holmes, though,” Donna muttered, “sauntering in here and tossing a bomb into my life that way. How many chances did he have in three years to tell John you were alive?” She grimaced. “It’s disgusting. I’m going to stay angry at that man forever.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock replied. “Maybe I can help.”

Donna briefly explained that she felt Sherlock’s brother owed her a boon, for having disrupted the peace of her life with John, and while she was hazy on the specifics, she knew full well that Mycroft Holmes had power and access. She wanted compensation. Sherlock listened attentively, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face, made suggestions as to what Donna should demand. Half an hour later, empty mugs set aside and forgotten, Sherlock was beside Donna on the sofa with John’s laptop open on the coffee table in front of them. Donna clicked through photos of tall, sun-filled rooms full of mid-century furniture, with old-wood floors, and open-plan living areas.

“Three bedrooms, three baths,” she commented. “Close to here. Top floor. Nice views. Look at that kitchen, would you?”

“That’s the one, then?”

“Definitely. Put in the link and let’s dash it off.”

Sherlock copied and pasted the link into an email he’d helped her compose, to his brother Mycroft.

_“Good Morning, you awful man,_

_Seeing as how you recently turned my entire life upside-down by unexpectedly producing your late brother alive and well into my previously cozy and contented home, I believe you owe me significant compensation to set my mind at ease and provide for my now most-uncertain future. As this is no burden to you, I expect you will act upon the following requests in the swiftest manner possible._

_First, I will require an annual income of ten million pounds, post tax, paid monthly (in person by you if that is most inconvenient). Financial independence will alleviate my worry that in the event John Watson should divorce me now that you have significantly altered the course of our marriage by the introduction of Sherlock Holmes into our life and home, I would be destitute and at my age, probably unmarriageable. This amount will be subject to annual increases in the form of standard cost-of-living rises plus one percent, and will be payable until my death. An adequate budget for a household staff will be negotiated, and will be additional._

_And on the topic of household, I will require appropriate housing as the flat in Baker Street, Marylebone, currently occupied by Dr. Watson and myself is much too small to contain three adults (not to mention how such an arrangement would appear in society). I have determined that the flat in Green Street, Mayfair (see attached) will be adequate to this end (at least for now). I will expect delivery of the residence within fourteen days. Naturally, the deed will be in my own name, and allowance will be budgeted for home maintenance and  annual redecoration (more often if I become bored by the décor or it becomes passé)._

_This arrangement shall not be amended, voided, nor revisited by you in any way, regardless of any change in my circumstance; don’t be miserly as well as evil.  Additionally, any children I may give birth to, adopt, or simply find charming will require elderly German nannies and tuitions paid to the schools of my choice throughout their lifetimes. They will probably also want horses, and later nice cars such as Bentleys or whatever is significantly better than a Bentley by the time they reach their majority._

_In this fashion, I will make my way, in spite of the fact you have so carelessly lobbed this grenade into my life. While there is no hope for your redemption from horridness, I, at least, will be slightly better able to carry on once you have accommodated these, my minor—nay, trifling—needs._

_No thanks to you,_

_Donna Noble Watson_

_PS: My husband is buggering your brother. (Noted in the event you were unclear as to the particulars. Enjoy the mental picture.)”_

Both Sherlock and Donna had to stifle laughter in order not to wake John, and Donna was extravagant in drawing curlicues in the air with her finger on her way to pressing the “Enter” key to send the email.

“Think he’ll go for it?” Donna asked.

Sherlock replied, “I’ve little doubt. The money’s nothing to him, and somewhere in that frozen heart of his he must bear some guilt for how this has played out, particularly for you. He has a soft spot for a victim; it’s a real weakness of his.”

“God, that bit about the horses!” Donna giggled, pressing her fist to her mouth to stifle the noise.

Sherlock shut the laptop and sank back with a deep sigh, long legs splayed beneath the coffee table; Donna maintained her perch at the end of the sofa, back to the armrest, legs tucked beneath her. She studied Sherlock’s profile as he stared at the ceiling.

Sherlock’s deep voice was just above a whisper, as he asked, “When are you going to tell John you’re pregnant?”

Donna gasped, then tried to play it off. “Now what are you on about?”

“Ginger.”

Donna touched her hair, frowned at Sherlock, who still stared up at the ceiling.

“When you first arrived this afternoon, your breath smelled of ginger, which pregnant women often use to settle their stomachs and prevent morning sickness,” Sherlock intoned. “You had ginger tea for breakfast or—more likely, judging by the irritation evident on your lips—you had a ginger lozenge in your mouth before you arrived.”

“For car sickness. In the taxi.”

“From Chiswick? That’s a journey less than ten miles, it can’t have taken more than forty minutes on a Sunday lunchtime. Furthermore, when you hugged John, you winced—your breasts are tender. Obviously, it’s still early days; you’re wearing your usual clothes without even unfastening the button on your jeans.”

“Oi. What are you doing looking there?”

“No obvious changes to your skin or hair, no swelling in your face or fingers—you’re still wearing your wedding rings. Last, there’s an unopened box of tampons in the bathroom with a colour-coded inventory sticker affixed; the colour changes each quarter: white for winter, green for spring, yellow for summer, and the sticker on that box is orange, which means it must have been purchased within the past ten weeks.”

“All right. Thank you,” Donna said, quietly but firmly. “That’s enough.”

“I’d surmise no more than eight weeks gone; probably even less.”

“I said that’s enough, thank you.”

“So?” Sherlock pressed. “Why haven’t you told him?”

“I wanted him to decide what he wanted without feeling trapped,” she said. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“It’s none of my business,” Sherlock said mildly, “I just wondered.”

“I’ll tell him soon. Like you say, it’s still early days.”

They fell quiet again. Sherlock yawned extravagantly, but his wide-open eyes stared ahead.

“I know that it’s none of my business--” Donna began. “John told me—not much, no details—but. Well, he hinted at why you might have trouble sleeping.”

Sherlock rolled his head so he was facing her, but didn’t say anything in reply.

“I’d never intrude, but I. . .well, John had an awful time after you left, he probably wouldn’t tell you—“

“He told me he thought he wouldn’t survive it.”

“I knew he would, but no, he didn’t think so. He made me give his gun to my grandfather to lock away for a while.”

“Did he.” A strange, flat inflection rather than a question.

“Do you need me to have it locked away again?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Probably not.”

Donna frowned, but let it go by.

“Anyway,” she eventually continued. “I’m a good listener. Good company, up late in the night. . .” Donna looked to Sherlock for confirmation. He half-smiled. “I’m here. You know--if you need someone.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said simply.

Donna rearranged herself on the sofa, sitting upright, feet on the floor. “Got a magic touch to put a bloke to sleep, too. Come on, then.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Head.” She patted her lap. “Right here.” Sherlock still looked suspicious. “Come on, no funny business. You’re not my type.”

Sherlock shifted so he was lying on his side with his head on Donna’s thigh, facing away from her. “Skinny streak of nothing, you are,” she teased good-naturedly. “Anyway, close your eyes.”

Sherlock did as he was told, curled his wrists beneath his chin. Donna reached for the lamp beside the sofa and clicked it off. The streetlight through the window cast the room in sharp shadows like a 1920s, black-and-white movie. She went to work, stroking her fingertips across Sherlock’s forehead, cheek, and jaw, raking gently through his waves of dark hair with slow, methodical strokes firm enough not to tickle, light enough to soothe.

Within a few minutes, Sherlock was snoring. Donna propped her head on a throw pillow and closed her eyes.

*

Next morning, Donna’s neck was stiff and the un-shaded living room window let in too much light, waking her early. It took a few blinks for everything to come into focus: Baker Street (home); her neck stiff from sleeping upright on the sofa (feet pins-and-needles, as well); Sherlock Holmes asleep in her lap (my, how a life can change). She thought to try moving him, shifted her legs a bit, but he didn’t stir. She heard the bedroom door shushing open, and John emerged, somewhat bleary but looking significantly better than he had the previous evening.

“Ah, now, there’s a picture,” John said quietly, padding through the kitchen toward Donna and Sherlock. He smiled, mimed a camera in front of his face, clicked his tongue. “One for the books.”

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” Donna scolded, “He couldn’t sleep so I worked my magic on him.” She waggled her fingers in front of her.

“Ah, yes, I know it well,” John said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. He straightened back up and was moving to turn away.

Impulsively, Donna said, “Go on, this one as well.” She pointed her finger straight down at Sherlock’s head in her lap. John leaned down, resting his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm, and kissed his temple. Donna shook her head, laughed a bit. “I suppose I’ll get used to that. Eventually.”

“We’ll need to establish ground rules,” Sherlock said then, eyes still closed, startling them both. Donna slid her hand under his head and pushed him up and off her lap. He sat up beside her on the sofa.

“I’ll start the coffee,” John volunteered.

“Hang on; I’m desperate!” Donna rushed toward the bathroom.

They reconvened around the kitchen table with coffee and bickies (all that was on hand; Donna would do the shopping with Mrs Hudson tomorrow. God, how were they going to tell Mrs Hudson about Sherlock coming back?). John cleared his throat, then said, “Where to start?”

“Eliminate the impossible,” Sherlock suggested.

John looked thoughtful. “That just might work.”

“What does that mean, eliminate the impossible?” Donna asked, a little cross that John and Sherlock had already reverted to a verbal shorthand just two days after their reunion—leaving aside the fact she didn’t like the feeling she was on the outside of something, here in her own flat, beside her own husband.

John told her, “Sherlock’s guideline for solving cases: when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains—“

“--no matter how improbable--” Sherlock interjected.

“Must be the truth,” John finished. “So I suppose we should start with non-starters, and see where it takes us.”

Sherlock started them off. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s impossible for this to be a triangle.”

Donna agreed. “Definitely not a triangle. More of a V.”

“With John at the crotch,” Sherlock added.

“What’s this now?” Donna wrinkled her nose.

“The crotch of the V,” John said quickly, “Though, really, Sherlock, could you not have said ‘point?’”

He illustrated with his hand in a victory sign. “Me here.” He indicated the base of the V. “You here.” One fingertip, then the other, “Sherlock here.” He pointed between his spread-apart fingertips. “Nothing going on in here.”

“That’s right.” Donna nodded vigorously. “We’re a V. Absolutely not a triangle.” She forced a smile at Sherlock. “No offense meant; you’re just not my type.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shook his head, said nothing.

“Impossible for the three of us to all live together.”

“Agreed.”

“Completely off the table.”

Sherlock said, “But also impossible for me to leave Baker Street.”

“So, we’ll—what?—start looking for another flat?” John seemed uncomfortable. “I think we can manage the finances. As long as it’s. . .cozy.”

Donna smirked. “Don’t you worry about it, Sweetheart; I’ve got something in the works, and I think we’ll be well settled, sooner than later.”

“Cooking up a plan, are you?” John asked.

“I’ll let it be a surprise.” She winked at John. Sherlock flashed her a small, knowing smile; a good sign, Donna thought, that maybe the two of them could be friends. Before John had a chance to press the issue further, Donna piped up, “Impossible for me to give up Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings.” She looked meaningfully at John.

“Right, good,” he fumphered, tapping the handle of his spoon on the edge of his coffee mug.

Sherlock looked suspicious. “What _about_ Wednesdays and Sundays?”

John glanced sidelong at him. “We go to church, Sherlock. What do you think?”

Sherlock did not even attempt to hide his distaste for the reference to their married sex life. He looked at Donna. “This is exhausting. You two go on being middle-aged marrieds, and John and I will stay. . .” he struggled for a word and at last offered, “Mates?”

Donna caught a laugh in the back of her throat. John looked knowing. “Sherlock,” he said, “We are _not_ mates.”

Sherlock looked horrified. “What, then-- _sweethearts_?”

“Definitely not,” John replied.

 “Leave it,” Donna advised, then, to Sherlock: “And who are you calling middle-aged?”

“Impossible for me to tolerate you two being at each other all the time!” John exclaimed, holding up a hand toward each of them, indicating they should stop.

Donna’s phone sounded the text message alert and she fetched it from the table beside the sofa. Sliding back into her chair at the kitchen table, she checked the messages and found three words: “MH arranging it.” She smiled at Sherlock. “Thanks to your help with that email, your brother’s sex-cretary has just messaged to say he’ll be fulfilling my paltry requests. So I count you a friend already.”

Sherlock smiled. “Congratulations.”

John leaned forward. “What’s this now?”

“Your wife’s a millionaire,” Sherlock told him.

“Again, what’s this?”

Donna explained about her requests for compensation for her distress over her ‘ruined’ marriage. “I think I deserve at least that much,” she said with finality. “If you’d decided to leave me, I’d have asked for fifteen millions a year, so I think he’s getting off lightly. Wait’ll you see this flat, Sweetheart! It’s MAD.”

“So that settles the issue of living together,” Sherlock said. “You’ll stay here until the new flat’s arranged.”

“Donna, that’s extortion! Come on, now; you’re way above--“ John protested. Donna held up her hand to silence him.

“I ain’t above nuffin’, Big Boy,” she said emphatically. “Look what we’re doing right now, working out arrangements for a V-shaped whatever-you-call-it. My whole life’s gone topsy-turvy. The least I should get out of it is a comfortable place to rest my head. And ten million pounds a year.”

“It’s nothing to Mycroft,” Sherlock added, clearly amused and relishing the opportunity to see the screws put to his brother. “It’s not as if it will come out of his pockets. I agree with Donna that it was shockingly bad behavior on Mycroft’s part to keep me from you so long, to let the two of you get settled into a marriage, then produce me from thin air. She deserves satisfaction.”

“And ten million pounds a year,” Donna added, with a wicked smile.

“You two are proving to be a dangerous pair,” John said.

“It was Donna’s idea,” Sherlock told him, “I just helped with the wording of the request.”

John shook his head, shrugged helplessly. “All right then; I’ll leave it between Donna and Mycroft. I suppose I can learn to live with being a kept man.”       

 “Oh, god,” Donna interjected, “It would be impossible for me to explain any of this to my mum and grand-dad. So once I’m in the new flat, as far as they know, you live there with me.”

“Despite the inelegant way he presented it,” John offered, “I think Sherlock’s not too far wrong to suggest we just sort of carry on, and any time I spend here with him—during cases or whatever—“

“Or whatever,” Sherlock echoed.

“Stop that. Any time I spend here in Baker Street will just be negotiated as we go along, as circumstances dictate.”

Donna hummed agreement. “I can spare you now and then, I suppose. I’ll have my posh new lifestyle to distract me,” she offered. “Meantime, can we agree to just keep things. . .discreet?” She looked pointedly at Sherlock.

“No buggery in the common areas, then?” he asked, with a smirk.

“Something like that,” Donna replied, refusing to be shocked by Sherlock’s vulgarity. He’d learn soon enough she could give as good as she got. “No open-mouthed kissing, no graphic discussions. Nothing we wouldn’t do or say in front of, say, Mrs Hudson. We only have to share the flat for a few weeks.” She looked from Sherlock to John.

“Reasonable, I suppose.”

“Yeah, good.”

Donna leaned her elbow on the table, pointed her finger at Sherlock. “And listen, you. No detecting me.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“I mean it. Like what you said about bringing back my overnight bag yesterday. None of that. Keep your astute observations to yourself.”

Sherlock huffed indignantly.

“Don’t test me, or I can start sharing some observations of my own. Like about your hair.”

Sherlock’s hand flew to the back of his neck, fingering his dark curls. He narrowed his eyes.

“What about his hair?”

“I understand,” Sherlock surrendered.

“You’d better.” Donna sat back, crossed her arms.

“No, really—what’s this about his hair?”

*

END

**Author's Note:**

> "Tanpan" is the Chinese word most similar to "negotiation;" it indicates a discussion leading to a judgement.


End file.
